


Women in Uniform

by TheSecondQueenOfSol



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 16:51:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8586289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSecondQueenOfSol/pseuds/TheSecondQueenOfSol
Summary: WWII WAAF AU - Delia Busby, a promising young pilot in the WAAF, is assigned to Fox Cove Base. There, she meets Patience Mount, and of course, sparks fly. Trixie does her best to open their eyes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I must admit here that I’ve used a bit of wishful thinking and poetic licence with the W.A.A.F. The rankings are all accurate, however, and I’ve done my best to keep it within those parameters at least. Please, forgive any glaring inaccuracies. It is, after all, an AU.  
> Thanks so much to Think_Busby_Think for being my beta. Your help was invaluable! All mistakes are mine.

“Squadron Officer Delia Busby?” The waiting woman with astonishingly blonde, short cropped hair asked their newest addition as she strolled across the airstrip toward her.

“That’s me,” Delia saluted as technicians ran to attend her Type 156 Beaufighter.

“Squadron Officer Beatrix Franklin of the Fox Cove W.A.A.F. Base, home of the 1st and 2nd Squadrons,” Franklin smiled. Welsh. She adored Welsh accents. “Or as you may know us, the Fox Base Vixens.”

“I most certainly know the Vixens. You’re the talk of Headquarters. I feel quite spoilt with my transfer here.”

“It’s not all fun and games, I assure you. I glanced at the file they sent with your assignment,” Officer Franklin (Trixie, to her friends) informed Delia as she led her away from the Beaufighter and toward the base.

“The Vixens agree that we couldn’t have asked for or groomed a better candidate to lead our 2nd Squadron. You took out three planes over Frankfurt? I believe that’s a record(.)” Franklin was more than impressed. After taking out two Dornier Do 217 and a Junker Ju 87 over Frankfurt and two Henschel Hs 129 over Bristol, Busby was widely held to be one of the most promising fighter pilots in the Force.  Considering that she had just eleven months’ service, each hit added to her already astonishing record.

“So I’m told,” Delia smiled, pushing down the doubt that reared its ugly head. _They’re not just planes, Busby(;) they’re people. And you’re the one that plucks them out of the sky._ She swept the little voice aside. There would be plenty of time to brood after the war.

“For all _official_ purposes, this is Fox Cove Women’s Auxiliary Air Force Base, and we’re the 1st and 2nd Squadrons. Though you’ll never hear anyone at Fox Base call us that here. This is The Den, and we are the Vixens. Remember it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all we ask,” Franklin smiled. She had a feeling they’d get along like a house on fire.

“Might I enquire after Officer Mount?”

“Ah, yes, of course. Wing Officer Mount,” Franklin giggled, as though something about Mount’s title was rather entertaining. Delia resigned herself to the understanding that if it mattered, she’d find out later. “She’s quite sorry she couldn’t meet you on the strip…” _or at least, she will be_ , Trixie smiled inwardly “…unfortunately, the operation we flew last night didn’t go entirely to plan and she’s still patching things up. Officer Crane, a pilot in your Squadron actually, will be coming back the long way.”

“The long way?”

“Her plane went down somewhere south of London, just off the coast. As far as we can ascertain, she’ll be returning soon with the Port of London Authority?”

Delia couldn’t help but look a little astonished. Whoever this Officer Crane was, she must be an exceptional woman. She made crashing in the English Channel sound as if it was all in a day’s work. She supposed here, this close to the French coast, it must be.

“Regrettably, this also means we’re down another plane. I know Commander Mount will be very glad to see you in a Beau. We could use another set of wings.”

“Commander Mount? Not Wing Officer?” Delia asked, a little perplexed.

“Ah, yes. About that. Though it’s not strictly protocol, she’s Commander Mount to the Vixens. We have a unanimous agreement that it was entirely unfair that the R.A.F. equivalent of her rank is titled Wing Commander, and she is merely Wing Officer. So, outside of formal occasions and paperwork, she is Commander Mount. It distinguishes her, though I’m sure you’ll see she doesn’t need any particular help with that. It’s one of the few rules she allows us to bend. She’s firmly devoted to the chain of command, but she doesn’t care to divide the Vixens on something so petty.”

“Sounds entirely reasonable to me.” If Delia was honest, it did bother her that the male R.A.F. rankings included commander, lieutenant, captain and leader, where the W.A.A.F. equivalents were merely ‘officer’. Somehow it felt rather degrading. Needless to say, she had absolutely no issue bending this particular protocol.

“Now,” Franklin pushed open one side of the double the doors that lead into the hillside. “Welcome to The Den.”

There was much to be said for Fox Cove. The cove was protected by undulating hills and a single flat valley provided a smooth stretch for the airstrip.  The interior of the base was hollowed into the largest of the hills, hence the nickname, no doubt. The planes were kept in aircraft hangars that jutted out from the rock. Behind them, dug into and built out from the slope, stood several varying buildings and barracks, all serving as the home of the Vixens, the most exceptional and notorious air squadron this side of the English Channel. Fox Cove Base was considered fairly top secret for this reason. In fact, Fox Cove didn’t actually exist. It was a code name, and no matter how many maps one examined, Fox Cove would never appear. One could find Wells Bay, an inauspicious little inlet, and on that hopeful note, Germany would never connect the two.

Franklin led Delia through the maze of corridors that comprised The Den, explaining each as they went. They dropped by the mess hall and Delia met one Mrs B, the cook, and by the hospital.  It was full to the brim with nuns, though was not in the least bit subdued (Sister Monica Joan came to mind). Apparently nuns consisted of about a third of the occupants of The Den. All of the base nurses and three of the aeroplane technicians were nuns. Delia never had experience or indeed cause to form any particular opinion on the religious sisterhood. She supposed this was that chance.

“Sister Monica Joan is lovely, rather she doesn’t always make a lot of sense,” Officer Franklin smiled. “Mrs B is a _divine_ cook, and when we do get a crumb of Victoria sponge, it makes this whole war worth fighting.”

“I’ll be looking forward to that crumb then,” Delia smiled. Franklin had handled Sister Monica Joan with such grace and care, she was quite reserved in silent admiration. She was incredibly thankful, really, to have taken to Franklin so quickly, as she was Squadron Officer for the 1st Squadron, the sister to Delia’s 2nd Squadron. Soon enough, they’d be flying together, heading strikes and counter-strikes over England and German-occupied France, and it never hurt to appreciate or admire one’s co-leader.

 

“” “” “” “”

 

“Now, ladies, I’d like to introduce our newest Vixen,” Franklin stood from her place at the mess hall table and pulled Delia up with her, raising her tin mug of tea (there wasn’t a drop of alcohol at Fox Cove, except in the hospital for medicinal purposes). “Delia Busby, recently promoted Squadron Officer, transferred to Fox Cove for our 2nd Squad. Widely considered the most promising new officer in the Women’s Auxiliary.”

Delia blushed deeply. It wasn’t usually something people acknowledged, though she had discovered in many ways that afternoon that the Vixens did things a little differently. They weren’t afraid to acknowledge the truth, whether harsh or pleasing, and they stuck together like Emperor Penguins in a winter storm. This wasn’t just an Airforce base, this was a community, and one that firmly believed the war would be won by working together, not competing against each other.

“What do you say girls? Let’s make her the best officer in whole R.A.F.”

The forty to fifty odd women in the hall (all those not at their stations, as rank didn’t divide when it came to meals) cheered and drank to Delia. This felt right. This felt like the beginnings of home.

She couldn’t wipe the grin from her face and turned to Franklin, who beamed at her and squeezed her shoulder.

“I’m serious.  We’re going to make you the best pilot and officer in the R.A.F. Mark my words, you’re going to be Air Chief Marshal by the end of this war.”

Delia blushed again. She knew Franklin was being too kind, forgetting the fact that she was not a Lady or at all of noble birth, and that no woman had ever been granted a rank higher than Air Commandant.  Still, it felt wonderful to have her hard work and achievements acknowledged.

What she really wanted, however, was to meet her commander. She seemed to be everywhere Delia was not. They’d missed her in the Command Room.  She wasn’t in her office when they’d dropped by, and now it appeared she was skipping dinner.

“Franklin –” Delia began, only to be cut short.

“We’re off duty now. Call me Trixie, please. If I may call you Delia?”

“Of course.”

“Go ahead then.”

“Trixie, I don’t suppose Commander Mount will be joining us?”

“Patsy? Oh, I’m sure she’ll come by.”

“Patsy?”

“Yes, Patsy,” Trixie smiled that gentle, knowing smile. “Patience Mount, if you will. We went through training together, and both graduated and were commissioned to the 2nd Squadron at the beginning of this wretched war.”

“You’re close then?”

“I’d consider her my best friend.”

Delia glanced at the door for at least the tenth instance that evening. This time however, she found a pair of eyes already staring back at her. To her wonder, and indeed mild distress, they belonged to one of the most exquisitely beautiful women she had ever seen. She was elegantly tall, with piercing eyes that Delia would bet her left kidney were an intense shade of blue.  Her hair was a captivating tone of red, styled and pinned under her cap in a practical style that was devastatingly attractive. Delia would probably give her remaining kidney for a chance to unpin that hair and run her fingers through it. And that went without mentioning her cheekbones. Dear god, the way her crisp uniform hugged every curve...

…her crisp uniform that had three white stripes embroidered across the sleeve.

_Oh no. Oh no no no no please dear God don’t do this to me…_

Awareness quickly swept through the mess hall, and the Vixens began rising and cheering. The sensational redhead seemed to shake herself out of a daze, and stepped back to take the shoulder of the older woman behind her and guided her into the room as the cheers grew steadily louder.

“That’s Phyllis Crane,” Trixie leant in and told her as they rose to cheer with the room.

Mount took the mug offered to her and raised it to the assembled crowd, which immediately fell quiet, spellbound before their commander had even opened her mouth.

“Last night, in a defensive operation off the coast of Dover, Flight Officer Crane shot down a Henschel bomber before it could reach the English shore. She took a hit and landed in shallow waters far south of Dover. She spent last night and today finding her way back to The Den.” Mount turned to the awkward older woman and let a gentle smile play across her face. “Nobody will ever say you aren’t determined. To Officer Crane.”

“Officer Crane!”

The group toasted and erupted into whooping and applause. Crane gave a tight smile and a stiff nod, trying very hard to mask a great well of relief and pride.

Someone handed Crane a bowl and offered her a seat, both of which she took gratefully, huddling in to a group of older women and two or three nuns, no doubt to tell her grand but terrifyingly true tale.

“Commander, over here!” Trixie raised her hand and called, though it was abundantly obvious Mount was already headed in their direction.

Delia’s mind went into full panic and blanked. Oh god, the way she walked, with an air of cool confidence… _Pull yourself together Busby._

“Trixie, we’ve discussed this. At least refer to me as Mount, even if you refuse to acknowledge the rank.”

“Oh, Wing Officer Mount then,” Trixie sighed in exasperation, her voice still tinged with a smile. Patsy supressed a grin. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

But Mount was no longer regarding Trixie. She’d fixed Delia in place with that impossible gaze again.

“Of course. Wing Officer Patience Mount. Welcome to Fox Cove.” Mount held out her hand to Delia.

_Think, Busby. Think..._

Delia took the offered hand. The hand with soft skin and a wonderfully firm handshake, slender fingers and perfectly short manicured nails.

_Pull yourself together._

“Squadron Officer Delia Busby. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” _Okay, that was pretty good. It sounded coherent._

“I hope Officer Franklin hasn’t been unpleasant at all?”

Trixie huffed. “Oh, come now Patsy. Officer Franklin? Really?”

“Shouldn’t I at least pretend to follow protocol?”

“No, this base runs better than a well-oiled machine without all of us trotting around on high horses pretending titles matter.”

“One of these days I’ll find a way to explain why the hierarchy is an important tool of war,” Mount turned with feigned exaggeration away from her insistent best friend. “So, Officer Busby…”

_Oh, concentrate…_

“…now that you’re familiar with The Den, you’ll have no problems finding my office tomorrow at oh eight hundred for a briefing with Officer Franklin.”

Trixie huffed comically. Delia suspected Mount had said it just to exasperate her.

“Of course.”

“Followed, naturally, by an introduction to your full Squadron and an afternoon strategising. I’ve heard respectable things about your technique.”

Delia was very glad Trixie chose this moment to interrupt, because she had no idea how to respond. _Was that a compliment or an insult? She doesn’t look to be the kind of commander who dishes out insults, so, a compliment? Maybe? Possibly? Hopefully? No Busby, shut up and pay attention._

“Patsy, have you eaten anything today?”

“I had a bite at breakfast.”

“It’s now dinner sweetie. Sit.”

_Sweetie? You fool, of course she’s with Trixie. I mean look at them…_

“In case you’ve forgotten, Trixie, I have three stripes and you have two.”

“I don’t care about stripes and you know it. I care about you.”

Delia’s stomach lurched. _Alright…_

“I’ll take something to go.”

“Patsy,” Trixie said firmly, arching her eyebrows.

Mount reprimanded Trixie with a tilt of her head and a firm expression. “Enough, Trixie. We have a war to fight.”

“That’s exactly my point.”

“And if you continue, we’ll both make fools of ourselves in front of our officers.”

“Then why don’t we take dinner some place more private.”

_Oh…_

“Delia can join us,” Trixie grinned.

_Oh?_

Delia looked from Trixie to her new ( _angelically gorgeous_ ) commander.

“Very well,” Mount conceded, though the soft tilt at the edges of her mouth erased any concerns of frustration. “My residence, I suppose. And of course Officer Busby is welcome to join us.”

_Providing I actually live that long, and if I am to be thoroughly honest at this moment my chances are deep into the negative._

 

“” “” “” “”

 

As the two Squadron Officers at Fox Cove, Delia and Trixie shared quarters. It wasn’t a tiny room, but it was certainly compact, and located on the top floor of Nonnatus Barracks, the sleeping residence for all Flight Officers, Section Officers, and Assistant Section Officers.

Mount however, was a Wing Officer (or Commander, if one obeyed Trixie’s adamant rule breaking), and the most senior resident officer of The Den. As such, she had private quarters, and considerably larger ones at that.

What caught Delia’s eye immediately was the floor-to-ceiling bookcase that occupied the whole left wall. It was filled with everything from flight manuals and protocol booklets, to classic fiction and women’s periodicals. Delia was quite taken aback, in the best possible way, and she must have looked it, because Trixie had a cheeky smile playing across her lips, and Patsy was looking awfully pleased with herself.

Not wanting to appear overly keen, Delia dragged her gaze away from the bookcase and scanned the rest of the room. There was a desk with a lamp stacked with papers and folders pushed up against the corner of the bookcase and front wall.  A single bed lay flush against the opposite wall. A chest of drawers was at the head of the room, and two lounging chairs (that looked to be the most comfortable furniture in the base) with a small table between them. It was no royal chamber, but it was no doubt the most comfortable room in The Den.

“Would you like a drink?” Mount wandered in, put her bowl of stew down on the little table and made her way to the chest of drawers, turning up a few glasses and unstoppering a bottle. “I have a rather delicious lemon cordial I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

_Lemon cordial? Goodness where had she got that? Wait, a special occasion?_

“A special occasion?” Trixie arched her eyebrows at Mount, voicing Delia’s query.

“We have a bright new officer in our midst, and by all accounts, she’ll win us the war.”

Delia’s heart fluttered and she blushed deeply. _Goodness. That was a compliment. How was she supposed to take that? How will Trixie take it?_

But when Delia glanced over, Trixie was giving her a little, knowing smile. Delia wasn’t ready to let herself hope.

Little did she know, Patsy was a deep shade of red, and trying desperately to wrestle her heartbeat under control without Trixie, or god forbid, Delia, noticing.

“Yes, then a drink would be wonderful,” Trixie closed the door, breezed in and draped herself across the neatly made up bed. _Was this Trixie being territorial?_

“Delia?”

“Oh, well who am I do dampen a special occasion?” Delia smiled and sat herself on one of the lounging chairs. She wasn’t relaxed, but she had a feeling it wouldn’t take long.

“Excellent, because I’ve already mixed three,” Mount declared, turning to face them, three glasses balanced precariously between her hands. She sauntered over and placed them onto the little table, pulling over the remaining chair to face the bed and creating a cluster of the three around the table before sitting, picking up her meal and leaning back into the seat.

“So, Delia, tell us about yourself,” Trixie queried as she spun into a sitting position, and pulled out a cigarette, offering one to the other two while she lit her own. Patsy accepted gratefully. Delia declined.

“There’s really not much to tell. I was born and raised in Pembrokeshire, Wales. Joined the Force almost a year ago.”

“And why did you do that?” Trixie probed.

Delia bit her lip. Did she give the whole truth, or just the first half?

“To defend. And I suppose because I don’t believe it’s a choice.”  Half the truth would do for now.

“There’s always a choice,” Mount answered without a beat, before taking a bite of food.

“With all due respect, ma’am, only cowards believe in choice.”

“Please, never call me that,” Mount’s face broke into a stunning smile. Delia’s breath caught. “It’s just Patsy. Out there I’m Commander Mount, but in here, it’s just Patsy, and Trixie and Delia.”

“As you wish… Patsy,” she tried the sound in her mouth, and Patsy’s heart melted to hear her name with a Welsh lilt. “You certainly do things very differently to, well, everyone else.”

“I realised quite early on, when our successes started rolling in, that those up higher don’t care how I run Fox Cove, provided we sink ships and down planes. And that aside, we need to win this war more than we need to follow protocol.”

“And you believe that protocol has it wrong?”

“Perhaps for the gentlemen a strict hierarchy is necessary to maintain order. But we have found, among the Vixens, that it tends to disaffect rather than strengthen our ranks.”

“I thought disaffection was the point?”

“We’re fighting a war against Germany. It’s a waste of time and energy to fight amongst ourselves as well. I found that disaffection only caused division, and among women, it’s more important to remain unified than it is to encourage competition. We can do our best work without being at each other’s throats.”

“Well, it’s abundantly clear that you’re right. HQ were positively buzzing with stories of your victories.”

“ _Our_ victories. I man the fort, perhaps, but everyone does the fighting. And from what I can see, you’re joining us at the best possible time.”

“Just going where I’m sent.”

“Then I’m extremely glad you were sent here.”

“As am I.”

Trixie had remained silent watching them get acquainted, though she did hate feeling left out of the conversation.

“So, Delia sweetie, what do you fly? I saw you came in on a Beaufighter.”

_Sweetie? Okay, maybe she calls everyone that?_

“That’s the one. A Type 156. She’s a little ragged around the edges, but she still gets up and down and she’s never left me in a lurch. I’ve had her for at least, oh, seven months now.”

“Seven months?” Patsy asked incredulously. “I don’t think I ever made a plane last that long.”

“Did you fly?”

“I was only promoted, what, would it be five months ago?” She asked Trixie.

“The worst day of my flying career,” Trixie huffed. “Up you went to Wing Commander and I was stuck down here as a lowly Squadron Officer.”

“Lowly, Trixie? Really? You command a squadron of some of the best pilots in the R.A.F., and you spend half your life above the clouds.”

“Yes, without _you_. I had my best friend in the air, and goodness knows it made every flight equal parts of terrifying and exhilarating. And now I only have you on the radio.”

“Well, with any luck, Delia will fill that gaping hole you clearly have in your heart.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all we ask,” Patsy replied, just as Trixie had earlier, before finishing her last bite of dinner and lighting the cigarette and taking a deep draw. She didn’t have many vices, but cigarettes were up there on the very short list.

And that, Delia realised, was the key. The Vixens didn’t want you to crush the hopes or spirits of others in order to succeed. Being your absolute best, rather than simply planting your flag at the top of the heap.

“Would either of you like some tea?” Trixie asked, sliding off the bed and putting her glass down. “I’ll go and make a pot and bring it up.”

Patsy gave Trixie a blank, slightly panicked look that Trixie found quite entertaining.

“That would be lovely,” Delia broke the slightly awkward moment of silence.

“If you insist,” Patsy was struggling to keep a straight face. Rather unsuccessfully, it should be noted.

Trixie glided out the door, closing it gently behind her.  She watched them through the shrinking crack; Patsy’s expression a delightful mix of panic and excitement and Delia’s an amusing cross between dread and confusion.

They sat in silence only a moment before Patsy thought she’d better say something rather than just stare at Delia’s lips (which she was definitely not doing. At all).

“So, all that aside, what do you think of the Vixens?”

Delia mulled it over. She was impressed, that was for sure, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have any concerns. As always, she went to the heart of the matter. “Do you think, in compromising the cold military efficiency favoured by other commanders, you’re compromising your officers?”

“How so?”

“Their efficiency, I mean. It’s no longer about getting a job done, when you become friends with those you’re doing the job with. Particularly when we don’t always come back.”

“So you would rather die having never felt friendship than fly fearing you’ll lose a friend, or die knowing you had a friend?”

“It isn’t about friendship; it’s about winning a war.”

“No, it isn’t. Because if we win this war as empty shells, then what have we really won?”

“Our lands?”

“Our broken lands and empty hearts?”

 _Okay, so this didn’t go where I was expecting_. And yet Delia liked it. People generally avoided the tough conversations. But not Patsy, apparently.

“Then what do you say of killing? We have all killed. And we will probably kill more before the end of the week. Killing empties my heart.”

“I do not like killing. I loathe it, in fact. But until I find another way to defend our home, and the people who look to us for hope, I will match bullet for bullet and strike for strike. And when I can I will strike first. _They_ invaded _our_ home. Remember that, before you look to them as blameless. I can’t control what they do, but I can control how we respond. And if we want to live, we must kill. At least we will be people when we do.”

“You’ve thought about this an awful lot, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” Patsy’s eyes gave way to a little hint of sadness. Those eyes, that hid behind them a great queendom waiting to be explored. “Because the day I can no longer justify my actions, I’ll know I’ve become a shell, and I’ll know I’ve become my enemy. And when I become my enemy, I fight for him. And then I’ll know I’ve lost.”

Stunningly beautiful, obviously very intelligent, and to cap it all off, she had a conscience. Delia was quite sure she was a lost cause at this point.

“What are your thoughts? You have an exceptional record, which means you are better at what we do than any of us,” Patsy asked.

_She certainly knows where to poke and prod._

“I’m proud of my record, of course I’m proud. Every plane that isn’t flying against us is a plane that can’t drop a bomb or deliver supplies. But I haven’t yet learned to shake the thought that it isn’t just a plane.  It’s a person, or people. It’s never just a bomber, it’s a pilot and co-pilot, a gunner and two dispatchers. It’s at least five people, who are fighting a war, just like me.”

“One day, we’ll look back at this war, and maybe then we can ask these questions, and we won’t have find an answer.”

“Maybe.” Delia glanced at the glass in her hand and drained the last quarter. “I’ve been meaning to ask, why is there no drink at Fox Cove?”

“I’m assuming you mean alcohol?”

“Yes. It’s just, uncommon, well, really unheard of, that any base would have such a conspicuous lack of what is generally considered a necessary supply.”

“I banned it, about seven weeks ago.”

“And why was that?”

Patsy paused to choose her words. “A few of the girls were having trouble with drink. I saw it, I suppose, and need my officers to be in top shape at all times. The easiest way to do that was to simply get rid of the stuff all together.”

“That seems awfully radical.”

“Really, it’s been better for the whole base. We find solace in each other, rather than at the bottom of a bottle. Instead of aiming to forget, we strive to remember. We fight to end this war, rather than fighting to just get through another day of it.”

“And do the Vixens share your sentiment?”

“I’d hope so. And if they don’t, I’m the Commander,” Patsy smiled, that smile that made her heart flutter.

 

“” “” “” “”

 

It was quite late by the time the three broke up. Trixie had returned with tea, thank goodness really. Delia had been engaged in a verbal dance around Patsy, giving and obtaining little flecks of information. Patsy was far from innocent, however, indulging in the game, baiting Delia as much as she herself was baited. It was irresistibly effortless. And even though there was so much Patsy had kept to herself, under her guard and away from prying eyes, Delia didn’t mind at all.

By the time Trixie returned with tea, Delia was quite a lost cause. She had fallen, and faster than she had ever fallen before.

Now, however, after making her way back to Nonnatus Barracks with Trixie, she was resting against the wall at the head of her bed, still fully clothed with a glass of water in hand. Trixie was unlacing her shoes, talking about their plans for tomorrow. Delia was doing her best to listen and engage. It was a struggle. Not because Trixie was boring, but rather…

_…that face, that said so much in every frame of each expression… those blue eyes, and the stories behind them… that gentle smile, with those full, curved, red lips…_

She tried to wrestle herself back to the present by taking a sip of water.

“Delia, sweetie, are you a queer?”

Delia choked on her water. _Oh God, was this it? Was this the end already?_

“I ask because generally I can tell right off the bat, but I’m having a harder time with you.”

“Why would you suggest such a thing?” Delia tried to feign shock. It didn’t work.

“Delia, we’re in the Women’s Auxiliary. No one asks questions or needs answers for whether this sort of thing is right or not. In fact, it’s quite the opposite of spot the queer. It’s spot the ordinary folk. I’m achingly normal, I’m afraid. One of the few. Patsy, on the other hand…” Trixie trailed off suggestively.

_Hold on, Trixie is ‘achingly normal’? But Patsy… she hadn’t imagined it? Wait, was Trixie insinuating… even encouraging…?_

“I’m not a fool. I just wanted to be certain. The last thing we need is a broken hearted Commander.”

_Not a fool… is it really that obvious? Wait, broken hearted? Inferring she has already invested her heart…_

The sirens throughout The Den blared, signalling an impending air raid and calling pilots of the 1st Squadron to their stations. Delia had never been so thankful for the German’s impeccable timing.

“We’ll continue this another time then,” Trixie winked as she leapt up and hurriedly laced on her shoes. “You won’t be flying tonight, so head to the Command Room if you want, and keep track of the raid from there.”

And then she was gone, and that familiar sense of dread settled into Delia’s stomach. That fear that her friend may not return overshadowing the relief that she had just admitted she didn’t care that she was a queer.

 

“” “” “” “”

 

Delia yanked the latch on her Beaufighter’s cockpit and pushed it open, thick smoke obscuring her vision and billowing out as she dragged off her flight mask. She was coughing and trying to draw a breath as she leant heavily against the consol.

She heard faint shouting. Her vision blurred and blackened and her lungs burned.

“Buckle, get to Busby!”

“Clear the way!”

“Where’s Sister Julienne?!”

“Get up there!”

“Pull her out!”

She felt hands wrap around her upper arms and pull. She was passed down, cradled against someone’s body. Her feet hit the ground as she coughed, one side still held up by some unknown figure. She dropped her mask. Her hand and wrist stung furiously.

“Somebody pick that up.”

Someone ducked under her other arm, and the two held her up as her lungs heaved.

“Get her away from the plane. Get everyone away!”

They stumbled off, Delia barely standing; held tight and upright by the two bodies on either side.

“Sister, over here!”

“Get her on a bed.”

“No, keep her standing.” Sister Julienne’s voice. “We need to clear the lungs.”

Delia heaved again, coughing. It was getting easier. Just a little. But the pain in her hand only sharpened.

“Is the fire out?”

“Fred’s on it.”

“Is she burned?”

“No, I think the jacket protected her.”

“And the bullets?”

“We haven’t seen any blood.”

“They missed completely?!”

“I think so Sister.”

“That is a miracle.”

The coughing subsided, though it still stung to breathe.  She dragged the fresh air into her lungs, ignoring the pain. Delia realised she was clenching her stinging eyes tightly against the smoke of the cockpit where she was no longer trapped. She blinked, and was assaulted by bright sunlight. Tears streamed down her face.

“I think it’s mostly smoke damage.”

“I believe you’re right.”

“Delia? Delia can you hear me?”

“Ye…” her lungs refused to exhale, forcing her into another fit of coughs.

“Don’t worry, dear, we’re going to take care of you.”

She nodded, or at least, tried to.

 

“” “” “” “”

 

A little group of officers clustered around the base of the hospital bed where Delia lay, her right hand in a shallow tub of water. They all looked nervous as they waited for confirmation.

“So, what’s the verdict? All in one piece?” There was masked concern in Crane’s eyes.

“Yes,” Delia smiled. “Just smoke inhalation and a small burn. No bullet holes. No lost limbs. Nothing that the Sisters can’t fix.”

“I can’t say the same for those two Dornier. I’m afraid they dropped quite hard,” Noakes smiled sheepishly.

 “They should have known better, I think, than to mess with our Busby,” Gilbert added enthusiastically.

“You’re a Vixen now, Busby. Now and forever,” Trixie beamed.

“You gave us quite a fright for your first operation,” Turner smiled an awkward but proud little smile.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“Oh, don’t you dare apologise,” Trixie ordered incredulously. “You dropped another _two_ craft, took at least a dozen bullets, and still flew all the way back here! And what did you get for it? Smoky lungs and a shallow burn!”

There was a flutter of motion around the doorway.

“Where is she?” Commander Mount… Patsy swept in, looking rather formidable.

Sister Julienne trailed along beside her as she strolled towards Delia’s bed. “Resting. We’ve completed a full examination. Miraculously, the only injuries she sustained were minor smoke damage to her lungs and a first degree burn on her right hand and wrist. Nothing that won’t clear up in the next few days.”

No one could miss the relief that flooded Patsy’s face. “Thank you, Sister. Have we dressed the burn?”

“Not yet. We’re just cooling it for now. I’ll be back in a few minutes to apply the wrap.”

“No need.”

Sister Julienne nodded and left, heading to the briefing hall for quick post-op checks on the other officers.

Delia stared up at Patsy, trying her best to keep a blank face. “About the plane…”

A smile of pure sunshine spread across the Commander’s face, even as she tried to stifle it. “I’m afraid it’s quite beyond repair.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Sorry? Goodness knows you shouldn’t be. We can still salvage parts, and from what I hear, the Germans certainly won’t be doing the same from their Dornier.”

“Even so.”

“You saved countless lives tonight, Officer Busby. You have nothing to apologise for.”

Trixie glanced between Patsy to Delia, before deciding to make a move. “Okay, ladies, it’s time to brief that operation. Noakes, collect the records from Command. Gilbert, Mullocks and Crane, gather the squad to the briefing hall. Sister Mary Cynthia, would you join us for post-op checks?”

The group looked Delia over once more before deciding they were satisfied she would survive the next few hours, and departed with promises of tea, leaving the ward empty.

“So,” Patsy said, pulling up a chair. “You gave me quite a scare.”

_Me… not us._

“That was certainly not my intention,” Delia was doing her best to appear nonchalant about the fact Patsy, despite her position, had appeared at her bedside not twenty minutes after Delia landed in a craft filled with bullet holes, sporting a minor burn.

“How’s your hand feeling?” Patsy was trying desperately to think of a decent excuse as to why she was there. Beside Delia’s bed. Despite the fact she was the commander of the base. And Delia was almost perfectly fine.

“Much better, thank you,” Delia was well aware her cheeks were tinged red.

“Here, allow me,” Patsy picked up the towel, burns cream and bandages from the side table, and began gently lifting Delia’s hand from the water.

She must have looked a little perplexed, because Patsy smiled gently, half reassurance, half dare.

“Officer Busby, I’ll have you know I am a fully trained and qualified nurse and midwife. This is nothing.”

“Really?” Delia asked, surprised. Most officers were lucky to have a basic field training.

“Really,” Patsy confirmed. She couldn’t wipe the smile off her face. Goodness this woman was so beautifully adorable. She looked as though she wouldn’t hurt a fly. And yet here she was, waging savage war. She dried Delia’s hand on the towel as gently as she could, put the bowl aside and began softly applying the cream. “Trixie and I both took an accelerated course with our flight training.”

“For midwifery?”

“Yes, it was an optional extra to the nursing we thought might come in handy. We’re a versatile pair, I assure you.”

“Well, then that makes three of us,” Delia smiled at Patsy’s own surprise. “They couldn’t decide whether they needed a nurse or pilot, so I did both courses together.”

“Really?” Patsy paused momentarily in her application of the salve.

“Really,” Delia smiled.

“Then perhaps I should let _you_ do this.”

“No, it’s quite alright.” Delia blushed, afraid she might have sounded a little too eager. “You’re almost finished anyway.”

Patsy couldn’t, wouldn’t, hide the soft smile, feeling giddy to her core. She took her time wrapping the burn.

 

“” “” “” “”

 

“Delia!” Trixie called to the retreating figure at the other end of the corridor.

She turned and smiled at the blonde bob clipping its way toward her in those standard issue leather soles that made an unmistakeable sound.

“Delia, sweetheart, you absolutely must join Pats and I later for a little unwind after this rather busy week,” Trixie watched Delia supress a smile of sunshine on hearing Patsy would be joining them before her expression faltered a little.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense. You’re a Squadron Officer now, Busby. You’re not intruding at’all,” Trixie brushed off her concerns and turned to go. “Patsy’s room, nineteen hundred. Don’t be late.”

“Does Patsy know about this gathering?” Delia queried, though she was fairly certain she already knew the answer.

“Not yet, though I’ll remedy that soon enough.”

“Should I await confirmation?” Delia grinned at Trixie’s audacity.

“Oh, Patsy never says no to me. And I believe she now has all the more reason to say yes.” Trixie winked and flashed her spotless white teeth before charging off down the corridor, throwing Delia a little wave and leaving her to process what she’d obviously just insinuated.

_Oh you flying flapper jack Busby, what have you got yourself into…_

 

“” “” “” “”

 

“General Ginger,” Trixie swung open the door to her commander’s office without so much as a knock.

Patsy wasn’t sure which of her many offences to discipline. If she disciplined Trixie for all her infractions, it would be so time consuming the base would fall to ruins with Patsy’s inattention. Good thing for Trixie that she was a rather extraordinary pilot and strategist, meaning the need for her outweighed their capacity to do without. She picked one of her many transgressions and ran with it.

“Franklin, that is an even worse bastardisation of my name and rank than, what was the last one, Officer Impatience? No, perhaps it was Sergeant Sarcasm?”

“No, it was Commander Carrots I believe,” Trixie answered matter-of-factly.

“What’s next? The Auburn Admiral?” Patsy sighed, trying very hard to be exasperated.

“Oh, that’s a good one,” Trixie said, swinging the door shut and perching on the edge of Patsy’s well organised desk.

“Except I am neither an Admiral or indeed in the Navy, and I do not have Auburn hair,” Patsy pointed out, rubbing her temple to appear incensed.

“Yes, and you’re not a carrot either, I might add.”

“For now. Can I help you with anything or was this visit marked solely to remind me of the colour of my hair?” Patsy tilted her head and raised her brow in question. She’d melted the hearts of a solid third (if not half) of her officers with that tilt, not that she knew, or would acknowledge it.

“Delia and I are coming around for a game later.” It wasn’t a question. Trixie didn’t ask Patsy about these things. She told her. If she didn’t, Patsy was in serious danger of doing nothing but sitting at her desk all day, strategising, completing paperwork, passing orders and breathing in more cigarette smoke than she did air.

A swift succession of emotions paraded across Patsy’s face upon hearing the news. Delight, appreciation, panic, terror, and finally, something between anticipation and dread.

“Oh Pats, come on! _Let_ yourself,” Trixie pleaded.

“Trixie, we’re at war. For all I know, we’ll be at it for another twenty years.”

“All the more reason.”

“No, it isn’t. I won’t compromise my position.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to live a little.”

“If I do, none of us will be living at all.”

“Remember how you always give me that little speech on remaining human through all of this? This is me, reminding you that you are allowed to be human. And there is no better way than–”

“Stop right there. Your message has been received and noted. Now leave, before I demote you.”

“Okay, but I’ve already invited Delia so you aren’t getting out of tonight,” Trixie stood and glided to the door. Patsy opened her mouth to object. “You wouldn’t want to let her down now, would you?” Trixie gave her that shrewd smile, closing the door before Patsy could formulate a witty response.

No, she didn’t want to let her down. Ever.

 

“” “” “” “”

 

Delia paused at the turn into Patsy’s corridor and glanced down, checking her crisp, perfectly pressed uniform, just to be sure. As per usual, everything was in order. She touched the cap on her head. Still there. Still in place.

_Come on Busby, this isn’t an inspection. Pull yourself together. Besides,  Trixie will be there too. Not that it would mean anything if she wasn’t._

She breathed a slow breath out to try and calm her racing heart. It did nothing.

_Just go for goodness sake!_

She stepped around the corner and marched briskly up to Patsy’s door.

_You can do this. Just remember to breathe, and don’t look at her lips, and don’t say anything stupid, and don’t go anywhere near the bed, and don’t speak unless spoken and don’t make direct eye contact…_

Delia took a very deep breath. Again, it did nothing.

_Okay, now knock._

Delia knocked twice gently. A moment passed and the door was drawn open.

“Delia,” Patsy smiled and Delia suffered a mild heart attack.

_Oh my god abort! Abort!_

“Please,” Patsy pulled the door open to reveal an empty room. “Make yourself at home.”

_Oh my god, you’re early…_

“I’m so sorry I’m early.” Delia was pleased she could construct a whole coherent sentence. All those rules she had drilled herself with moments earlier fell away.

“Oh nonsense. You’re right on time. Trixie is only late when she wants to be. And believe me I’ve tried alleviating her of the condition. Every year I give her a new wristwatch for Christmas and every year she refuses to use it. I’m sure she has quite the collection by now.”

Delia hadn’t believed Patsy could be any more perfect twenty seconds earlier. Evidently, she was wrong.

 

 

Patsy paced back and forth, glancing around the room, checking for the millionth time to see everything was in place. She pulled her cap off and lay it on her side table, smoothing her hair, despite the fact no strand had shifted from its place.

_Pull yourself together woman, you’re the commander of an air base for goodness sake._

But no matter what she did or told herself, she couldn’t erase the thoughts the little Welsh officer stirred, or indeed the feelings that accompanied them. She’d be here any minute and Patsy had no idea what she would say or do. She leant against the back of the lounging chair, taking deep, calming breaths. At least, they were supposed to be calming. They didn’t work.

God, she was perfect. Completely charming, yet absolutely professional, extremely bright, perceptive, courageous. Some were even calling her a hero. Patsy agreed with that assessment.

Patsy. Wing Officer Patience Mount. And Mount was rather accurate. She was immovable. Usually. She was solid, certain. People set their watches and planned strategies by her.

And then in walks Delia. And suddenly, she felt more like a river than a mountain. Or perhaps she was a cloud. Needless to say, she wasn’t a mountain.

A knock at the door startled her out of her thoughts. That would be her, most probably.

Patsy stepped straight to the door and pulled it open. A smile spread involuntarily across her face before she could think to stop it.

There she was. Perfect as ever. Crisp uniform. That nervous little smile playing across her lips. For half a moment, Patsy could have sworn panic flickered behind her eyes. But before she could think, it was gone, replaced with something else. Patsy hardly dared to hope that it might be…

“Delia,” her name sprung from her lips before she realised she had said it.

_Come on Patience. Move. Act. Open the bloody door._

“Make yourself at home.”

_Okay Patience that was way too far.  Bring it down a notch. Or twenty-five._

“I’m so sorry I’m early,” Delia said, stepping inside and standing awkwardly in the centre of the room, where Patsy had been pacing moments before.

_Well I’m certainly not…_

“Oh nonsense. You’re right on time. Trixie is only late when she wants to be. And believe me I’ve tried alleviating her of that condition. Every year I give her a new wristwatch for Christmas and every year she refuses to use it. I’m sure she has quite the collection by now.”

_Patience you’re rambling stop rambling she’ll think you’re a fool._

But before Patsy could even close the door, the alarm blared.

_Oh god. The drill. I completely forgot._

She’d asked Crane to ring a drill for training just that morning. She’d never hated her past self so much.

 “I’m so sorry, but duty calls,” Patsy broke Delia’s gaze, blushing deeply as she stood and turned to the door, pulling it open and fleeing the scene. She was extremely annoyed to discover her emotions did not remain in the room with Delia.

 

“” “” “” “”

 

“Ladies, that was _barely_ acceptable, and a very great distance from perfect. I want all off duty and non-essential on duty personnel in the briefing hall in ten minutes. We’re going to fix that disaster before it is repeated in an actual air raid. Noakes, Crane, Franklin, Turner, Gilbert, meet me outside the briefing hall before we begin,” Patsy said, her commanding tone out in full force.

She was standing in the centre of the Command Room, scanning the officers before her. She was actually relatively happy with the drill, but daren’t let them know.

 “I’m sorry to interrupt, Commander,” Delia stepped up beside her as the others turned to go. Great, just what she needed. Her train of thought faltered with Delia’s manifestation.

“No need to apologise, Busby. What can I do for you?”

Trixie was watching from the door like a Seahawk. Or perhaps, like a Vixen.

“You forgot your hat, Commander,” Delia said as quietly as she could, cheeks reddening with every word as she held out the offending headwear.

It was not quiet enough to escape the keen ears of the departing officers.

Crane’s eyes glittered (she had long suspected the pair would get along _very_ well). Shelagh Turner blushed for absolutely no real reason whatsoever. Chummy Noakes suppressed a grin. Beside her, Trixie didn’t even try, her eyes gleaming and overexcited.

Gilbert studied her notes, completely unaware of the entire state of affairs.

Patsy was beyond mortified. She had just coordinated an entire base air raid drill in inadequate uniform. Goodness, she was about to deliver a post-drill briefing in front of her entire base in an incomplete uniform. She accepted the cap gratefully.

“Thank you, Officer Busby.”

“No need, Commander. Just doing my part.” Delia smiled as Patsy jammed the cap onto her head and marched off.

 

“” “” “” “”

 

“Patience, it can’t possibly be any more obvious.”  There was absolutely no trace of humour in Trixie’s voice. For the first time since Jenny Lee fell from the sky, she was absolutely serious. “She is _in love_ with you.”

“You don’t know that, Trixie,” Patsy replied, seated behind her desk, refusing to meet her friend’s eyes as she scribbled an inventory order for Sister Julienne.

“Patsy, I’ve been living with her for almost three months.” Trixie glared down at Patsy, thoroughly exasperated. “We share a rank, a bedroom, a base, and you. Believe me, _I know_ ,” Trixie said firmly, emphasising the point with a wave of her hand. Really, she just wanted them to hurry up and accept how perfect they were together.

“Trixie–”

“Last night, she was moaning your _name_ in her _sleep_. Stop this and tell her, so I don’t have to suffer through another night like last.”

That caught Patsy. She stopped scribbling and placed her pen down very gently. “Are you absolutely certain–”

“Yes,” Trixie threw her hands into the air. “Of course I’m certain. And believe me, Pats, that’s not even the beginning.”

“Really? What el – I mean… No, no,” Patsy rested her face in her hands. “I have a base to run and a country to protect. I’m not going to waste my time or energy on _anything_ else.”

“Pats,” Trixie pleaded. “You need this. You both need this. You’ll be happier…”

“I don’t need to be happier,” Patsy snapped. “I want to crush the empire stomping its feet at our doorstep.”

“But you want to be human too, you always say so!”

“Human is not a synonym for dead.”

“I know that, Pats, but I just…” Trixie was so frustrated, her words broke up in her mind. She straightened, composed herself and glowered at Patsy, looking her commander straight in the eye.

“Patience Elizabeth Mount,” she breathed, dangerously quiet. “If Delia falls out of the sky tomorrow, and you haven’t told her, how do you think you’ll be? Fit to command? Ready to save the country? No, you’ll be shattered into a thousand pieces. We need you, and you need Delia. So pull yourself together, get down off your high horse and _tell her_.”

Trixie slapped a hand down on the desk, spun on her heels and marched out, throwing the door open and stalking through the Command Room. Gilbert’s eyes followed her in concern, though she had no idea why Trixie was in such a way.

Crane was close enough to the door to have inadvertently heard a few scraps of their argument. The scolding had included Commander Mount’s full name, the occasional ‘Delia’, and, if Crane wasn’t mistaken, the word ‘love’ at least once. She was rarely mistaken.

For what it was worth, Crane agreed with Trixie. This dance had gone on long enough. The whole base (perhaps with the exception of the oblivious Barbara) knew they completely adored each other, and they agreed it would be best if they just got on with it. Rather amusingly, even the majority of the Sisters were now rooting for the romance (Sister Winifred, poor dear, refused to acknowledge it altogether, insisting that she was avoiding damning her friends).

Needless to say, their resistance was nonsensical, and the Vixens agreed.

 

“” “” “” “”

 

“Delia!” Trixie swung their bedroom door open, a wide grin lighting up her face. “Drop whatever you’re doing. You absolutely must come with me!”

“Why? What’s happened?” Delia sat up, clutching her copy of _The Women’s Wartime Weekly_ (which was now a six monthly periodical).

“Come now, book down, shoes on," Trixie hardly paused for breath, going straight to her drawer and pulling out a spare neck tie. When she turned to find Delia hadn't moved, she scolded her. "Up you. I won't say it again.”

“Trixie, what is this?”

“Up, that’s an order.”

“Trixie, we’re the same rank.”

“A poor excuse for disobedience. Now move.”  She clapped her hands at Delia, who sighed, threw her book on the bed and stood.

Trixie charged out the door, leaving Delia to jump up and follow. She led her this way and that, winding through the corridors, moving down the hill. Delia had been at The Den long enough to know they were heading for the airfield. But just as they were approaching the door, Trixie spun around suddenly, and Delia almost walked right into her.

“Turn around,” Trixie commanded, and Delia was in such a state of confusion and anticipation she obeyed without question. Trixie produced the spare tie and proceeded to cover Delia’s eyes.

“Trixie, I didn’t sign up for this.”

“You’ll thank me later,” Delia could hear the smile in Trixie’s voice, edged with anticipation.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she laughed.

“Okay, I’m leading you out the door now,” Trixie was not at all perturbed. She knew she was right.

Delia felt her hand taken up by Trixie and tugged gentle.  She heard the heavy base door scrape and clunk open and felt a gentle breeze on her face.

“Come now, don’t be shy,” Trixie tugged.

“Trixie I don’t even know where I’m going how could I possibly be shy about it.”

“Excuses, excuses. Just don’t fall over your own feet and I’ll do the rest.”

“Easier said than done.” Delia stumbled a little, completely unable to gauge her surroundings. “Trixie slow down, I can’t see.”

“Good!” Trixie exclaimed.

On they went across the runway, Trixie giddy with anticipation.

Delia did her best not to stumble along behind her. She hated to think how this must look to others. God forbid Patsy was on the runway and saw her stumbling like a new born.

Trixie stopped suddenly and took Delia shoulders, turning her ninety degrees on the spot.

“What on earth did you blind fold her for?!” Patsy’s high voice sounded incredulous and accusatory.

Delia’s heart skipped. _Oh god, she saw the whole thing…_

“I didn’t want to ruin the surprise!” Delia could hear the smile in Trixie’s voice.

“Well untie the poor woman,” Patsy ordered. “I asked you to bring her down here not accost and kidnap her.”

“Oh nonsense, she’ll thank me,” Trixie shot back as she untied the knot of the blindfold and pulled it off with a flourish. “Ta da!”

Delia’s eyes were assaulted by the sharpness of the light. She blinked as they adjusted, and slowly, through the haze of her confusion, she made out her surroundings.

Sure enough, they were on the open runway. Trixie now stood in anticipation beside her, a huge grin plastered across her face. Patsy stood a little way off, looking nervous behind her firm exterior. And behind Patsy was… was…

Delia’s thoughts trailed off completely and her brain froze.

“Is that… Is that for me?” She asked in complete disbelief.

“Yes,” Patsy nodded. “Well, one of them. And only one, I’m afraid. It’s a replacement for the last one.”

_One? Oh my god …_

Behind Patsy stood one Supermarine MGks 24 Spitfire (older but fast and reliable) and one North American P-51B-7 Mustang (the newest plane in the European theatre, barely tested in combat but ridiculously fast and said to be the final fighter that would win the war for the sky. According the Americans, anyway. Patsy had serious doubts).

“Though it’s rather more of an upgrade,” Trixie smiled.

Delia was completely lost for words.

“HQ decided you would benefit from a better model.”

_A better model… a better model?? These weren’t “better” they were the best. _

“Well, they’re not much use just sitting there,” Trixie prodded. “Go on!”

Delia snapped out of her trance and stepped forward tentatively. If she moved too suddenly she was afraid they might disappear in a puff of smoke.

She ran her fingers along the cold metal, feeling the smooth and expertly crafted teardrop canopy of the Mustang.

She spun back to Patsy suddenly.

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“Absolutely,” Patsy nodded, the firm nod hiding her giddy insides.

“Then I want this one,” Delia grinned.

Patsy faltered. “You don’t even want to… check it? Take it for a test flight?”

“Oh no, it’s definitely this one.” Delia grinned and spun back, swiftly climbing the wing and settling into the cockpit. “Yes. This one.”

“Well then, I guess that’s settled,” Patsy nodded. “I’ll see that Fred completes a full service before your first flight.”

And with that, Patsy’s façade crumbled. Seeing Delia so happy again, so at ease in the cockpit of her new fighter plane.

Before she said or did something she’d regret, Patsy spun on her heels and raced off to find Fred.

It was only when she was disappearing toward the hangar that Delia’s brain finally registered what was happening, and who she owed it to.

Patsy had got her a P-51B-7 Mustang. Patsy had got her the newest and arguably best plane in the entire force.

Patsy had…

Patsy.

_Oh my god._

“Are you going to say thank you?” Trixie’s logic came crashing down into her bubble of shock.

Delia nodded mutely, staring after her commander.

Her body moved almost involuntarily, climbing itself out of the cockpit, onto the tarmac and toward the hangar.

Trixie grinned after her, turning back to the new planes and her new Supermarine MGks 24 Spitfire.

Delia wrestled control of her body back from autopilot and began to move with purpose. The hangar door was open wide enough for three people abreast, and Delia marched right in.

Patsy was smoothing her already perfect hair as she spotted Fred among the other mechanics and strolled toward him.

Delia followed. She had no idea what she was going to say, but she knew she had to say something.

_Thank you? That hardly seemed enough._

Patsy drew up to Fred, who stood to attention, and oily cloth in hand.

“At ease. I’m sure you saw the two newest additions to our Squadrons, Fred. As soon as Officer Busby has finished examining the Mustang it needs a full service. It was flown here and I want to be certain it’ll stay in one piece.”

“Understood Commander. Though -” Fred nodded to where Delia was approaching behind Patsy - “I think she’s already done. I’ll get right on it, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Fred,” Patsy nodded as he saluted (not quite perfectly) and dashed off.

Patsy could hear the clip of Delia’s standard issue shoes approaching behind her. She breathed deeply to calm the strengthening beat of her heart before turning to address Delia.

“Patsy, I don’t…” Delia stumbled over her words, her determination faltering slightly. “Why?”

Patsy’s cheeks reddened ever so slightly before she could fashion an appropriate response.

Wordlessly, Delia grabbed Commander Patience Mount’s impeccably placed tie and dragged her as quietly as possible toward the briefing room just off the hangar.

Delia swung the door open, pulled Patsy inside and closed the door in one swift motion.

She spun back to face Patsy. They were close, much closer than they needed to be, and yet not close enough.

Patsy knew what she wanted to do. And Delia… she was just so perfect…

Patsy stepped forward and pushed Delia gently up against the closed door, away from prying eyes.

Delia could feel Patsy’s breath brush across her lips and watched her gaze flitter between her lips and back to her eyes.

“Kiss me,” Delia whispered, breathless.

And she did.

And it was soft and slow.

And perfect.


End file.
